


The Past don't stay Past

by Zeke21



Series: Son of a Preacher Man [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 70s AU, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Ambivalence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Relationship, Chef Dean Winchester, Cynicism, Diner Owner Dean, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff, Gay Dean Winchester, Gay Diner, Gen, Happy, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Idealism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Openly Gay Dean Winchester, Religion, Sad Ending, Sam is trying, Sequel, Young Sam Winchester, and now sam finally understands what that means, dean just wants to be a big brother again, depends i guess, it was too sad my guys so i wrote a happy ending, love is magic the sun is shinning, this is unrealistically happy but who cares i want nice things, yass i love that there's already a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeke21/pseuds/Zeke21
Summary: After 10 years, Dean's past is beginning to catch up with him





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> SEQUEL Y'ALL  
> You probably should read Son of a Preacher Man to fully understand everything that's going on here but I think you can also follow this if you haven't read it too.  
> Thank you everybody for all the lovely comments that inspired me to write a happy ending <3

Sam Winchester had never been in a gay diner before. It looked, he noted with relief tinged with disappointment, more or less like any other diner. There were a few odd touches: the small rainbow flag on the thick doorframe (there was also a deadbolt); the names of the newspapers and magazines left on tables (Sam couldn’t imagine _Bi Monthly_ going down well in many other places) and the small pile of books in the window (which had its blinds pulled mostly down) but otherwise it was a normal diner: tacky, garish and loud yet charming because of these things. The people too looked more or less normal, at least at first. There was an awful lot of leather. Two men ( _a couple?_ ) from the booth nearest the door smiled at him and Sam jerked his eyes away.

_Don’t let anybody get the wrong idea._

Keeping his eyes down, Sam made his way to counter and sat on one of the plush seats. A girl (she couldn’t have been more than sixteen) made her way over, pen and paper in hand, red curls bouncing. “Hiya, what can I get you today?” she asked cheerily.

“Coffee please. Black.”

The girl frowned over her pad. “That it? Sure you don’t want some pancakes or something? They’re the best in the country: believe me,” she smiled wanly, “I’ve had ‘em all over and these are the best.”

“I’m fine thanks.” Sam didn’t think he could eat right now if his life depended on it. “Hey, um, do you know if Dean’s in?”

“Is he in?” the girl snorted. “When’s he not in? Want me to get him? Who should I say is asking?” she was already heading towards the door to the kitchen.

“Uh… just somebody that he knew a while back.”

She gave him an odd look at that, but stuck her head into the kitchen nevertheless. Her words were lost in the babble of conversations and cooking so he couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying. A second later, however, she turned back to him. “He wants to know if you’re Lester?”

“Who?”

Her head disappeared then reappeared once more. “Are you handsome?” she asked, eying him with indifference.

“What?”

“He wants to know if you’re handsome,” she explained, “I can’t really tell with guys. Are you?”

“I…guess?”  He cringed internally as she relayed this back to the kitchen. _As if this wasn’t weird enough already._

  “He’ll says he’ll be two minutes; he’s gonna bring you pancakes.” She brought the coffee pot over. “What’s your name stranger?”

“Sam,” he told her, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Charlie,” she held out her hand, “nice to meet ya. So, how do you know Dean?”

“It’s…complicated.” Was all Sam could think to say.

“It’s always complicated.” Charlie smiled slyly. “He an ex boyfriend?”

“What? No! I’m not – ” the words came out louder than he anticipated, where people staring? _Keep it together Sam…_ “No,” he finished stiffly.

“Sure.” Charlie just shrugged, still smiling. “But who else would walk into his diner and only say ‘It’s complicated?’”

He had opened his mouth to retort, still not entirely sure what he was going to say, when the kitchen doors opened.

“Charlie? Where’s my mystery man and wha–” Dean’s voice cut off mid sentence as he caught site of Sam.

He smiled weakly at his older brother. “Hi.” Dean had changed. The slim, haughty figure of his memories had filled out: broad shoulders, strong arms and light stubble over a well defined jaw. Even his eyes had changed. They were still the same bright green ( _same shade as Mom’s)_ but guarded:  the emotions that had once flashed so freely across them gone. Or maybe Sam had just forgotten how to read them.

Dean just stared at him. It occurred, abruptly, to Sam that he too had changed. He wondered if Dean’s memories were undergoing a similar transformation: the awkward, gangly preteen Sam had been replaced with the tall, imposing adult he was now. The missing years seemed to hang, visible, in the space between them. One of them had to cross. “Hi Dean,” Sam tried again. “It’s, uh, it’s been awhile.”

“Sam?”Dean’s voice cracked. “That really you?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled awkwardly, “it’s really me.”

“I uh,” Dean seemed unsure of what to do with himself. His hands were still full of pancakes and he cast about for an empty surface.

“Here, let me,” Charlie stepped forward, curiosity on every inch of her face.

“Thanks,” Dean murmured, still looking at Sam. “Hey, Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“You mind looking after stuff for a bit? And tell everyone the kitchen’s closed: I need to talk to Sam here a while.”

“ _You’re_ closing the kitchen? You. Has hell frozen over?” She was looking at Sam with equal parts awe and suspicion. “Just who is this guy?”

“He’s my brother.” Dean said simply. “Make sure no one bothers us ok?”

He led Sam to a corner booth, sliding onto one of the benches. Sam slid into the opposite seat. He could sense, practically see, the unanswered questions in Dean’s face and decided, in true Winchester fashion, to ignore them. “This is a nice place,” he said instead.

“Thanks. Had to work like shit for it and I’m still paying it off but it’s been worth every penny.” There was no mistaking the pride in Dean’s voice. “How d’you find it by the way? It sure as hell wasn’t in the last postcard I sent you.”

Dad had always burned them all anyway. “Missouri told me.”

Dean laughed, the low sound at once warmly familiar and achingly foreign. “Of course she did,” his smile faded as he watched Sam carefully. “What else she tell you?”

Sam shrugged. “Not much, just that you’d finally settled and that, seeing as I was in Stanford and you were in San Francisco, I should visit you when I had free time.”

“When did she tell you?”

Sam hesitated for a second. “Four years ago,” he admitted. He owed Dean the truth. “When I started college.” He watched Dean’s face carefully, searching for…he wasn’t sure. Anger maybe? Or betrayal. But Dean’s face was carefully inscrutable.

“What made you decide now was the time?”

“I wanted to, uh – ” Sam took a deep breath, “apologise. For what I said that night.”There was no need to clarify; they both knew which night he meant. “What I said…it haunts me,” Sam confessed. “The stuff that I said to you...” _That I hated you, that you were wrong, that you weren’t my brother._ He shook his head. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

“Sam…”

“I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me. I just wanted you to know how deeply I regret it.” Now that he had started, it was hard to stop. “After everything you’d already been through I should’ve been there for you like you were for me. You were hurt and alone. I mean Dad had…and Uriel, the whole fucking town knew what was happening and they did nothing and I was so angry, _so_ angry, for so long and you were god only knows where going through god only knows what while I was sat at home listening to the bullshit Pastor Novak and everyone else was spinning,” It was hard to fit ten years worth of apologies into one sentence –he knew his words were becoming jumbled – but he had to try.

“Sam.”

“I was an idiot, a fucking idiot and I know –”

“Sammy!” Dean had grabbed his arm, but the sound of his old nickname was enough to silence Sam. “Shut up for a sec ok? I’m not mad.”

“What? But I said –”

“Yeah I know what you said,” Dean cut him off, perfectly happy not to be reminded of the details. “But you were thirteen: a fucking idiot, like you said. Besides what could you have done? I didn’t want you to go through what I went through: that’s why I left,” he squeezed Sam’s arm, “and you’re here now, that’s the important part.” He waited patiently for Sam to finally meet his eyes again. Sam found them as warm and open as they were in his memories. It was as if a piece of him had been returned: one he hadn’t realised was missing until he had it back. He wondered how he had survived this long without it. He had his big brother again. 

“Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem Sammy.” The shallow words conveyed nothing of the understanding that passed between them. But they were Winchesters, so it would have to do. “So,” Dean smiled crookedly, “you go first.”

“First?”

“Yeah, tell me what I missed: prom date, college, gay phase?” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Sam blushed: equal parts amused and angry.

“I never!”

“Well something changed your mind about me. What was it?”

“It wasn’t any one thing,” Sam told him. “Part of it was you: no matter what Dad or anyone else told me, and no matter what _I_ told myself, I couldn’t really see you as an abomination or a demon or anything. And part of it was Pastor Novak: he kept going further and further off the rails. Screaming every week about this sin or that transgression. And he was getting so big too: in all the papers, radios, even TV broadcasts”

“You don’t have to tell me that part,” Dean grimaced, “I remember hearing those fucking sermons as far out as Idaho.”

“Yeah well he was so busy spreading the word of God to the masses that he forgot to deal with the doubters back home, and what little he did say only made me more confused. It was all so hate filled and angry. Eventually I cracked: finally went and talked to Missouri.” It was impossible to miss the way Dean’s mouth quirked up at the corner. Sam snorted at that. “Yeah, she chewed me out royally for what an idiot I’d been. But she helped. Then I left to go to college: actually saw the world for what it was instead of what they told me it would be.” He shrugged, “that’s about it really. I graduated this past year: I’m going to start law school soon.”

“You wanna be a lawyer?”

“That’s the plan yeah. But what about you? What happened to you?” If it hadn’t been ten years since he’d seen Dean last, he would’ve noticed how his brother momentarily tensed, then deliberately relaxed. But it had been ten years, so Sam didn’t notice.

Now it was Dean’s turn to shrug. “S’not much of a story really. Moved from one town to another: worked odd jobs until I had enough to move on. Eventually I made my way here, started saving until I could buy the place.”

“Dean, come on.” Sam was exasperated. “I haven’t seen you in ten years and that’s all you can tell me?”

“What else is there?”

“Well, what kind of odd jobs?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“I dunno: cleaning, lifting, other stuff,” Dean was determinedly not looking at him. “Sometimes I worked on cars. It got easier when I could start working in bars. Then I scored a cooking job,” he smiled, “an’ it all fell into place.”

Sam decided he didn’t need to know what ‘other stuff’ meant. He doubted Dean would tell him anyway. “You’re still not giving me much,” he griped. “What about Castiel?”

“What about him?” Dean asked, and Sam was surprised at the stoniness in his voice.

“Wasn’t he with you? Where is he now?”

 “Cas wasn’t with me,” now Dean just sounded confused. “He never showed: I figured he decided to stay with his Dad.”

“He vanished the same time you left,” Sam told him, “everyone assumed you two had run off together.”

“Huh.” Dean sat back, considering.

“Pastor Novak stopped mentioning him about two years after you left,” Sam mused, “huh.”

“What?”

“Just…that was around the same time he really started to lose it. I wonder what happened.”

“I guess we won’t ever know,” Dean was feigning nonchalance and Sam let him. The memories were probably painful after all. Besides, there was always later.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both shooting furtive glances at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Sam was trying to glean something of his brother’s missing years from his body: wondering at the scar he could see on Dean’s forearm, the tattoo peeking out from under his shirt collar. Dean, for his part, needed to make sure this was real.   

The noise of the real world slowly trickled in. The diner was still busy despite the lack of food. Or maybe _because_ of it: Sam could feel the curious glances being shot their way, though nobody had interrupted them. “Everybody’s staring.” He said, embarrassed. “Like they know.”

“News travels fast round here,” Dean seemed unconcerned. “You get used to it. Besides,” he smiled evilly, “a handsome stranger always attracts attention.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Can’t they tell I’m straight?”

 “Why would they?” Dean sounded amused. “You’re in a gay diner Sammy; we don’t get many of your kind in here.”

Sam met the eyes of one customer, a bearded man about Dean’s age, and looked away quickly when the man winked. “Well do they have to be so open?”

“Gay diner.” Dean reminded him, a hard edge to his voice now, and Sam felt his face heat.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok: You’re trying.” Dean assured him, and Sam felt better.

Conversation between them flowed after that and they talked even as the diner emptied around them. It was dark by the time they finally fell quiet again, alone except for Charlie, who was wiping down the last of the tables. In all their chatter, which had covered everything from  the state of Missouri’s library (“Pastor Walker still hounds her but she ignores him like always”) to portion sizes in Texas (“You wouldn’t believe the size of these plates Sammy. I swear: they’re all fucking cannibals looking to fatten up unsuspecting tourists”), Dean never asked about John.

 Eventually, Sam stood to go; exhausted but elated. Dean stood too, and before Sam could say anything, he’d been pulled into a crushing hug. It was different from how it used to be (now that Sam was taller he no longer felt so enveloped: the top of his brother’s head was a strange sight) but it was warm and full of love none the less.

“Don’t be a stranger Sammy,” his voice was slightly muffled as he spoke into Sam’s shoulder. And If there was a slight wetness on Sam’s shirt when they pulled back, Sam ignored it just as Dean was ignoring the glittering in Sam’s eyes, the quaver in his voice.

“Yeah Dean, course.” He turned to leave, pausing as one last thought occurred to him. “Dean, do you think you’ll ever find Castiel?”

His brother let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know Sammy,” he confessed, “God knows I miss Cas but,” he sighed again, “who knows where he is, or _what_ he is, now. And what could I say after all these years? Sometimes the past has to stay past y’know?”

Sam opened his mouth to disagree, and then thought better of it, a plan forming in his mind. “Maybe yeah,” he said instead. “I’ll see you soon ok?”

“Who’s Cas?” he heard Charlie demand eagerly as he left. The door closing cut off most of Dean’s response, but Sam heard him swearing softly and it was enough to make him laugh as he set off down the dark streets.


	2. Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to have kept you waiting, but i wanted to do this justice. enjoy some fluff to welcome you into this new year.

“Are you Castiel?” Charlie had taken to asking the question of every blue eyed, dark haired man that walked into Dean’s diner.

 

“Um…who?” asked today’s confused victim.

 

“Pity,” she informed him, “there’s a 10% discount for Castiels.”

 

At first it had been funny, then annoying, then sad, and now it was funny again. “There’s no point,” Dean told her. “He could be anywhere doing anything: he ain’t gonna just walk into my diner one day and order pie.”

 

“Sam did,” she pointed out.

 

“True,” he admitted, “but that was a fluke.”

 

The universe, he had long ago decided, was cold and uncaring at best, sadistic at worst. The best you could do was keep your head down and avoid its cruel jokes: to let yourself hope for more was to leave yourself open to pain. He said as much to Charlie and she giggled.

 

“You’re such a pessimist Dean. The universe hasn’t got it out for you; it hasn’t got it out for anybody.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenged her. “If the universe doesn’t hate me then why did it send me you to deal with?”

 

His only answer was dishcloth to the face.

 

But at long last, it seemed, the universe had grown bored of tormenting Dean and moved onto fresher, more arrogant, targets.

So it was that Dean was cleaning alone, Charlie lying flu ridden on his sofa, when the strange not-quite-stranger stepped through his doors.

 

“Hello Dean.”

 

It wasn’t the same voice (how could it be?) but he knew (how could he not?)  And spun round so fast he stumbled, clutching a chair for support.

 

“Cas?” it was more a croak than anything, barely heard above the thumping of his own heart, the rush in his ears.

 

“It’s me.” 

 

For a disconcerting second, Dean was 16 again, staring into the face of Jimmy Novak. But Novak’s eyes had never been blue, had never been filled with such unrelenting, unending, unconditional love.

 

“This is real?” he was afraid to do anything, to run, to move, to pinch his own arm in case it all dissolved into nothing as it had so many times before.

 

Cas took a step forward and didn’t vanish. “This is real Dean. I promise.”

 

Then they were both moving, stumbling really, into each other arms.

 

They stayed together for a long time, Cas’ fingers pressed bruisingly tight into Dean’s shoulder blades, Dean’s stubble leaving pale pink pockmarks on his neck. The past and the present merged confusingly, so that the slight, deceptively delicate teenager in Dean’s mind’s eye was at odds with the solid ‘here-ness’ of the body in his arms.

 

Eventually they pulled back, Cas wanted to look at Dean’s face. His features had hardened, sharpened, in their years apart but Cas could still see the softness that was Dean’s true self: a self only Cas had ever seen. It was in the glow of his eyes, the blush of his cheeks, the softness of his lips. This was a Dean that, through necessity and choice, was long hidden from the world, but he was still there, for Castiel. Waiting.

 

Now Dean was drawing him closer again, and Cas knew what was coming, wanted it too with every fibre of his being. He wanted to give in, to ignore his guilt and his sins and pretend that they were still teenagers stealing kisses in the shadows.

 

But even more than that, he wanted Dean to be happy.

 

“Dean, wait, please.” He stilled Dean with a palm to the chest. “Before we –” he paused, trying to get his thoughts in order. It was hard with Dean so close. “I want, no I _need,_ to say something… to apologise, to explain why I didn’t –”

 

“You don’t need to explain,” Dean told him softly, “It’s ok.” He could read Castiel as surely as Cas could read him, and the hardship and tragedy written into Castiel’s body: his tightly held posture, the military precision of his hairline, the immaculately ironed trench coat and trousers. Castiel’s years, he suspected, had been as rigid and regimentally evil as his had been chaotic and frenzied. “He sent you somewhere didn’t he? To one of those ‘schools’.”

 

Cas’ sag of relief was obvious. “Yes. How did you know?”

 

“Same thing happened to my old server,” he remembered some of the stories that Kevin had told him, fists clenching involuntarily. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“That’s not entirely true,” Dean had now become very interested in his own hands. “How’d you get out anyhow?” he asked before Cas could reply.

 

Cas grimaced. “I didn’t,” he confessed. “I tried everything I could think of save arson to escape, but they – and my father – were determined to ‘save’ me. It was easier to just wait it out, to pretend to be the perfect son who’d been led terribly astray.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “My Dad only allowed me to attend a Christian college, but eventually I managed to get a scholarship to an art college in New York, the pretence didn’t last long after that.”

 

 

“That’s amazing Cas,” Dean said. “What’d you study?”

 

 

 “Photography: I do freelance work now. But,” Cas grabbed Dean’s hands in his own, “that doesn’t matter right now. All I wanted to tell you was that I didn’t want to leave you alone, and I’ve mourned our time together ever since: the years we could’ve had. Maybe we would’ve burned out after a few months, like young lovers often do. Maybe if I’d run with you, we’d live on opposite ends of the country and speak of each other only in hatred, but maybe we wouldn’t have: we didn’t get to find out and we never will. Those years were stolen from us, and nothing and no one can bring them back, but I want to try. I want to love you again,” He took a deep breath, “If you’ll let me.”

 

Dean’s only answer was to kiss him.

 

Cas kissed him back with an almost reverent gentleness, amazed at the gift he had been granted. The weight that hand hung upon his shoulders for nearly ten years had transformed into a soaring, lifting joy.

 

“I love you,” Dean told him when they broke apart at last. “I need you. Please tell me you can stay.”

 

“I, uh, I didn’t book a hotel room,” Cas confessed sheepishly.

 

Dean laughed. “Well if you’re willing to put up with an over excited redhead with, I’d guess, at least two million intrusive and personal questions, then I can certainly put  you up for the night.”

 

“And after that?”

 

“And for as long as we can make this last.”

 

Cas kissed him again. “I’d be delighted.”

 

 

It was only hours later, once they finally managed to escape Charlie, once they were lying exhausted and sweaty in each other’s arms that it finally occurred to Dean to ask the obvious question.

 

“How did you find me?” he murmured into Cas’ shoulder. “How on fucking earth did you find me?”

 

Cas chuclked, the sound vibrating through both of them. “I wondered when you’d remember. Last week I got a post card with the golden gate bridge on it. It gave me the address of your diner” he said. He disentangled himself from the bed reluctantly, searching through the pockets of his trench coat.

 

“Did it say anything else on it? Who was it from?” Dean asked.

 

Cas’ only answer was to hand him the postcard. Dean read it in the flickering orange of the street light that shone through his small window.

 

 

_Missouri found your name in a magazine, I hope you don’t mind me contacting you, but I owe my brother ten years’ worth of Christmas and birthday presents and you were the only thing I could think of_

  * _Sam Winchester_



 

Cas couldn’t tell if Dean was laughing or crying but, he supposed, it didn’t much make much difference: the sound was the most joyful thing he’d ever heard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this for ages and, frankly, it's gotten to the point where it just needs to be posted before it's nitpicked into oblivion. I might reread it again when i'm less tired and make some changes. But i also might fully not.

“What the fuck am I doing here?”

 

The car was parked on the edge of town, the road equally dusty and worn as it had been all those years before, leaving a beige shroud on the Impala’s body. Nobody, it seemed, had bothered to have it paved and why would they? Why would you bother to pave the road that lead to the end of the world.

 

If he turned his head left, he could see the solitary bus stop where he’d waited, alone. If he kept his head straight, he could see the hazy, flickering outline of a church looming oppressively above the squat houses. He turned his gaze resolutely to the right, where all he could see was corn. Corn was safe. Who had traumatic memories about corn?

 

“Seriously, what the fuck am I doing here?” He wished Cas was here with him, despite how ridiculously, monumentally stupid that would’ve been.

 

“Come on, I’m sure it won’t be _that_ bad.”

 

Dean managed to wrench his head leftwards and send Sam a withering snort.

 

Sam, at least, had the grace to grimace. “Ok yeah, it’ll be that bad, but you need this.”

 

“No, _you_ need this.”

 

“ _We_ need this, Ok?” Sam’s voice was patient but tired – they’d had this conversation every 10 miles or so on the drive over. “It’s been twelve years since we’ve been together, twelve years since we’ve had a family.”

 

“That wasn’t my choice Sam,” Dean snapped, eyes fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “Why do I have to come crawling back huh? _He_ should be coming to _me_.”

 

“You know that’ll never happen. Listen, Dad’s more stubborn than you’ve ever been –” he held up a hand to forestall Dean’s interruption “– c’mon, you know that’s true. But he’s our Dad, and he still loves you, I know it. And I know _you_ Dean. You won’t be able to face yourself if you never tried to make amends.”

 

“Make amends?” Dean’s voice was dangerously calm but his hands were tense around the steering wheel. He was, Sam knew, about two seconds away from turning the car around and driving back to California. “Sammy, I ain’t got no amends to make with him, so I think I’ll face myself just fine.”

 

Sam let out a breath, and administered his coup-de-grâce. “And what about Mom?”

 

Dean froze. “What?”

 

“How’re you gonna face Mom one day and tell her that her family fell apart and you did nothing to fix it, huh? How’re you gonna look her in the eye and tell her that?” Dean seemed to stare through him, eyes glassy.   

 

_If Mom’s really still out there then we ain’t gonna be in the same place Sammy. She’s Up; I’m Down._

 

He clamped down on the words before he could say them. “Ok Sammy,” he said softly instead. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

*

 

Even for a small town in a Kansas heatwave, the streets were eerily dead. The heat rose off the tarmac in shimmering waves, but the flickering shadows on the horizons refused to resolve into living beings, instead revealing themselves as twisted trees, forlornly frozen in the breezeless air. More out of curiosity than to be cool, Dean rolled a window down, and was met only by the familiar smell of melting tarmac and the deafening screech of cicadas.

 

“Where is everyone?” He asked Sam, “this place is a freakin’ ghost town.”

 

“It’s Sunday morning, Dean.”

 

“Shit,” he had forgotten what they were like here. “Well what now?”

 

Sam cast him a sideways glance. “I was thinking we could head home –”

 

“And be there when John comes back? From church? No fucking way,” Dean cut in, uncomfortable memories of his last Sunday morning with John churning inside him. “Let’s go the library.”

 

“The library?” Sam frowned. “Why there?”

 

“’Cos that’s where Missouri is, c’mon.”

 

It was a short drive, but Dean went slowly, taking in the town, noting what had changed and what hadn’t. It all seemed more or less the same. The same squat houses, painted blue or white against the sun set in the same dry lawns with the same variation of dusty old pick-up trucks in the same cracked driveways. All that stood out where the gleaming white satellite dishes that dwarfed virtually every roof.

 

“Where’d they come from?” Dean asked, thinking back to the rusty, temperamental signal of his childhood. “They look like fucking death stars.”

 

Sam shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Um…Pastor Novak suggested it so that we could watch his broadcasts while he was away. Had a deal worked out with a local supplier so they were cheap.” He tensed at the mention of Castiel’s father, but Dean only chuckled grimly.

 

“He always was good at that.”

 

“At what?”

 

“Linin’ his pockets with the word of the Good Lord,” Dean snorted. “Remember his radio show: ‘Any god fearin’ Christian knows that Sherman’s Soap is the only soap that cleans your soul as well as your hands…’”

 

Sam laughed, relieved that Dean appeared to have relaxed enough to make jokes.

 

“While we’re on the subject,” Dean broke through the mirth, “I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone, _anyone_ , about Cas.”

 

“I wasn’t exactly planning on shouting it down Main Street but, c’mon, not everyone in this town is out for blood.”

 

“It doesn’t matter Sammy, it’s not safe.” Dean was firm. “Me n’ Cas have worked our asses off to make a home away from Him and all this and we ain’t losing that for anything. All it takes is one slip up for the Pastor to find out and he’ll show up, frothing at the mouth no doubt, on our doorstep. I ain’t risking Cas nor Charlie nor my damn diner, Ok?”

 

He had a point. “I’ll make sure not to spread the word.”

 

Dean reached over and clapped Sam on the shoulder affectionately. “Thanks Sammy,” he grinned.

 

They had pulled up in front of the library by this point which, to Dean’s dismay, had not survived as well as the rest of the town: the painted sign was even more faded and peeling and the building itself seemed to be slowly melting into the pavement. Nevertheless, the sight of it filled him with the closest thing to happiness he was likely to feel on this trip. Sam, beside him, was smiling too.

 

“It’s been awhile since I was here,” he said.

 

“Me too,” Dean lead the way up the stairs, pushing eagerly into the mercifully cool interior.

 

He had barely taken 4 steps in, when a vice-like pair of arms wrapped around his chest. “What the hell you doin’ back here you foolish boy?”

Dean hugged her back. “Nice to see you too Missouri. You look great.”

 

Missouri pulled back, taking him all in, meeting his eyes with such intensity that he was forced to duck his head. “You’ve changed,” she declared, “but not that much. Not like this one,” she jerked her head at Sam, who was watching with a bemused awkwardness.

 

“You’re telling me,” Dean laughed, “I still can’t get over the fact that he’s taller than me now.”

 

“Come here Sam,” Missouri pulled the other Winchester down into a hug of his own, “it’s good to see you. How’s Stanford? How’s Jess?”

Sam let her pull him into the easy conversation, with Dean occasionally supplying his own titbits from the side. Slowly, under Missouri’s masterful guidance, the flow of conversation eased in the direction of the older Winchester.

 

“…Charlie’ll stay on my sofa for as long as she needs it, I love the kid,” Dean found himself saying, “but there’s no way in hell I’d let her in my diner alone. Besides, it’s not safe for him here anyway.”

 

“It’s not safe for you neither,” Missouri observed dryly. “An’ as much as it’s nice to finally see you in person again, I know you ain’t here for me so what gives?” She shifted her gaze between Sam and Dean as they squirmed.

 

“We need this,” Sam began.

 

“No,” Missouri was firm but gentle. “You want this. It’s not the same thing. Do you really want to risk your brother’s safety and happiness on the off chance your father will pull his head out his ass long enough to listen to reason?”

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, disturbed by her bluntness.

 

She was giving him an out, Dean saw with a swell of affection. A chance to escape back to Cas and pretend this had never happened without losing face. He was tempted, almost, to take it. If not for the look in Sam’s eyes. “I want to do this, Missouri,” he assured her, though he was looking at Sam when he said it. “Trust me I know it’s stupid and believe me I’m shit scared right now,” he laughed hollowly, “but Sammy’s right. I have to at least try. I got Sammy back, I got Cas back - how could I live with myself if I didn’t try to get Joh…Dad back too.”

 

Missouri raised a sceptical eyebrow, but said nothing.

 

“Anyway,” Dean said firmly, “enough about us and our goddamn family drama. What’s been goin’ on here? Still corruptin’ the local youth?”

 

*

 

Missouri kept them talking for hours, letting them go only (reluctantly, and with promises to return that night for dinner) when the sun had reached its highest (and hottest) point in the sky. She caught Sam’s arm as he made to follow Dean out the door, pulling him down to her level so she could whisper. “I know you mean well Sam, really,” she murmured into his ear, “an’ I hope to god he proves me wrong, but I don’t trust your father, and I don’t want to see you or Dean hurt anymore so please, be careful.”

 

Sam was too confused to reply as he stumbled into the street.

 

“You alright there?” Dean shot him a concerned look

 

“Yeah, I’m good. Just, uh, tripped.”

 

“Then let’s do this,” Dean said grimly, walking to the car.

 

It was a short drive to the house (everywhere was a short drive away here), no more than a few minutes. “Ok what’s the plan?” Dean asked as they pulled out of the car park. “Any ideas on how to make this not awkward?”

 

“I was thinking it might be…easier if we rip the band aid off. Y’know, instead of trying to ease him into it.”

 

“So you mean I don’t get to wait in the car until you’ve hidden the bullets?”

 

“Yeah well, I think shock will make Dad easier to handle.”

 

“Ok and then?”

 

“We’ll use that shock to our advantage, I’ll explain what happened: why you’re here.”

 

“You really think he’ll listen?”

 

“Yes.” Sam said firmly as Dean pulled up, “I know it.”

 

Neither was quite willing to move yet, so Dean compared the barren, empty lawn in front of him to the space in his memories. When Mom was still alive, there had been rose bushes in the now empty beds. They had withered into skeletons alongside her, with nobody able to tend to them. Now even the brittle branches were gone, and only dust remained.  More to distract himself from such a dour line of thought, he forced himself out the car. Sam scrambled out after him, and they warily ascended the steps to the front door.

 

Sam reached over to knock, placing himself between Dean and the door. It all felt so wrong, to be hiding behind his little brother’s back outside his father’s house. They didn’t have to wait long. “Sammy?” The confused voice sent an involuntary shiver down Dean’s spine. “What’re you doin’ here son?”

“Hey Dad, I uh, I’ve brought someone to see you,” Sam shifted to the side awkwardly, and Dean came face to face with his father for the first time in twelve years.

 

They were the same height now, Dean realised. John still held himself straight and proud, but the solid mass of his body had begun to soften at the edges: his strong muscles smoothed by the fat of age and booze. His clothes were clean but worn: the shirt crumpled and fraying, a button on one of the sleeves missing. His hair and beard (frozen at salt and pepper in Dean’s memories) was almost completely grey now. His once sharp eyes were a little bloodshot and framed by harsh wrinkles.

 

It was surreal: to see the invincible, looming spectre that had haunted his memories for a decade reduced to mere humanity.

 

He watched the eyes take him in, the split second of confusion as John’s memories were also forced to align with the present and the flash of recognition. With an unexpected clarity, Dean knew what his father was seeing. He was seeing a tall, tanned man with strong arms and broad shoulders standing staring at him with his dead wife’s eyes. He waited, though he wasn’t sure for what. The majority of him tensed in anticipation of violence, waiting for John’s eyes to harden with hatred, for his fist to pull back. A smaller, but unbearably loud, part of him ached for John’s posture to relax, for him to reach across the doorway and pull Dean into a hug: the kind he got when he’d fallen off his bike or when Mom had died.

 

But instead John just grunted, before turning away and walking back into the house. Sam and Dean exchanged confused glances before following: Sam scrambling to catch up to their father, Dean hesitating in the doorframe, before forcing his feet forward.

 

Not much had changed in ten years, except that no one seemed to have dusted. He remembered sneaking in on that last day, remembered the dark patches on the wall where photographs of him had once hung. They were gone now: the shadows had faded into nothing in some places while in others new frames obscured them. He stopped in front of a patch of wall where, he thought, there had once been a picture of Mom, holding him in her arms (the photo had been too big to take with him, he wondered what had happened to it.) There was a new photograph now and he leaned in to study it. Two mismatched figures stood in front of the car. Sam – a ridiculously tall 17 year old in a navy suit that was slightly too short with floppy hair that was slightly too long – had his arm clasped awkwardly around the waist of a dark haired girl in a red dress. They were both grinning bashfully towards the camera. Dean smiled back.

 

“Dad, are you ok?” Sam’s nervous voice forced him back to the present, and he followed it to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. John was by the fridge, beer in his hand, his face still unreadable.

 

“I’m fine son,” he said gruffly. “Just give me a little warning next time will ya: I’d’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming.” From the doorway, Dean snorted. Amazingly, John acted as if he hadn’t heard. He took a swig from his beer. “How’ve ya been anyway? How’s that girl of yours: Jennifer?”

 

“Jessica,” Sam corrected automatically, shooting Dean another confused glance. All he got was in return was a shrug. “And she’s fine, thanks. But Dad,” he paused, “we’re, um, we’re not here to talk about me.”

 

“That so?” John grunted.

 

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice was surprisingly confident, and there was a slight grin on his face. “You got anythin’ you wanna say to me Dad?”

 

Slowly, John turned to face his eldest, leaving Sam to stand – all but forgotten – by the kitchen table. The air between them seemed to crackle as their eyes met. “That depends,” he said eventually, “you still a faggot?”

 

The corner of Dean’s mouth pushed up into a lopsided smile. He didn’t seem angry or sad. If anything, he seemed vaguely amused. “As a matter of fact: I am.”

 

“Then I got nothin’ to say to you that I ain’t already said before.” He took a step towards Dean, who remained still.

 

“That’s what I figured,” was all he said.

 

“Then why d’you come back?”

 

“Sam still thinks you’re a good man, deep down,” Dean shrugged, the movement lifting him from the doorframe so that he stood tall and straight. “Sure is sad to see him proved wrong.”

John’s eyes flicked briefly back to his other son and lingered long enough to register the pain and disappointment Sam was feeling, before skittering away again. “I may not be good,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear, “but I am righteous; n’that’s more than you can say.” In three quick, confident, strides he had crossed the kitchen to stand by the battered old house phone. “I’m gonna tell you again what I told you all them years ago: _I want you gone_ ,” He hissed. “If you don’t turn around and walk out right now, alone,” he picked up the receiver, “I’m gonna call Pastor Novak and the Walkers and whoever else I can get a hold of and we’ll deal with you once n’for all. You are not to come near me or my family again or I will kill you. You understand me?”

 

“Dad seriously, what the hell?” Sam tried to interject from the side, but John ignored him.

 

“Do you understand me?”

 

Dean’s jaw twitched, though his eyes remained flat and unreadable. “Yeah, I understand,” his voice too was expressionless as he dug in his pockets and pulled out his car keys, chucking them towards Sam without looking at him. Then he turned and walked out the house, slamming the front door behind him.

 

Before the lock had clicked into place, Sam had grabbed his father by the shoulders and pulled him round to face him, the phone hitting the ground with a harsh crack. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “How could you say something like that to your own son? How d’you think Mom would feel, huh? Seeing her family tear itself apart like this.”

 

“That was _not_ my son,” John shook him off angrily. “And he weren’t Mary’s son neither. You think she’d be proud of what her boy’s become: a degenerate? She’s probably cryin’ right now over you and how far down the path of damnation – the path _away_ from her – you’ve strayed. I’ll bet he told you all kind of bull. Some sob story about how he slept on the streets or sold himself to anyone that looked his way. An’ now he’ll tell you that he cares, that he loves you when he ain’t capable of love. All those like him can do is lust”

 

Who was this man? Sam had seen his father in many states before. He’d seen him so drunk he couldn’t stand or speak; he’d seen him prostrate with grief unable to do anything but scream. He’d seen John angry more time than he could count: seen him shout and argue and even lash out. But he’d never seen anything like this: never seen John so cold or collected in his rage.  For a second Sam saw only a stranger. But this wasn’t a stranger: this was his family: and he owed to them to try.

 

“Mom loves us. Both of us. And Dean’s not a degenerate. He’s a good man: the best. You have no idea what he’s been through, what he’s suffered. How strong his love is because of it,” Sam thought of Cas, of Charlie, and it was all he could do to hold his tongue. “And all because of you.”

 

 John laughed cruelly. “When did you get so goddamn naïve Sammy?” He shook his head in disbelief “Lettin’ someone like that worm his way back into your life after _everything_ we did to protect you! I knew it was a mistake to let you go to California, scholarship or not.”

 

“Dean didn’t ‘worm his way’ into anything. _I_ was the one that went to _him_. _I_ was the one who begged _him_ for forgiveness.” Sam felt a rush of pleasure as John’s face creased in confusion.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because _I_ was wrong. Because _you_ were wrong. Because I couldn’t bear another 10 years without my brother – and neither can you. You’re just too stubborn and weak to admit it.” He turned to leave.

 

His hand was on the door knob before his father spoke.

 

“Sammy,” was all he said, but in a voice so laden with emotion that Sam turned back, hopeful, only to see John’s face harden the moment he made eye contact. “What’s right is right, even when it hurts. When you finally see that, I’ll still be here. Family don’t give up on family.”

 

*

Dean didn’t bother turning his head towards the sound of the engine; he just kept his eyes on the corn. The car stopped, and he heard a door open and shut. Sam sat beside him on the bus stop bench, but he didn’t say anything, just rested his head on his hands and sighed.

 

Dean was the one to break the silence. “Who was the girl?”

 

“Who?”

 

“In the photo on the wall. She was wearing a red dress."

 

Sam thought for a second “Oh that was Ruby.”

 

“Seriously?” Dean said in disbelief. “I swear she used to be blonde.”

 

“Yeah well…puberty changes lotta things.”

 

Dean snorted with laughter, and, after a second’s hesitation, Sam joined him. The sound of their laughter was oddly muffled in the heat, lost in the drone of cicadas. “It’s a nice photo,” Dean said when they were finished.

 

“It was a nice night,” Sam smiled as the memory came flooding back. “It was my junior prom and Dad was thrilled that I was taking her that he even let me drive the car by myself…” he faltered, as what he was saying caught up with him.

 

“I should’ve been there,” Dean’s voice was so soft Sam thought he’d imagined it at first. But when he turned, finally, to look at his brother, he saw that Dean’s face was etched with grief and regret. His eyes were glassy, and he kept them fixed determinedly ahead.

 

“Dean…” Sam began, but cut off when Dean turned to face him.

 

“I should’ve been the one that drove you to the dance and picked you up afterwards. I should’ve taken that picture and made bad jokes and told Ruby embarrassing stories about you on the drive to the dance. I should’ve given you bad advice about sex and called her a bitch when you broke up. Instead I was probably in that seedy bar in Watsonville hustling pool and selling…” he glanced sideways for a second, “selling whatever just to earn enough cash for another night in some scumbag motel,” he shook his head. “I’m meant to be your brother, but I couldn’t ever be there for you when it really counted.”

 

 “You never thought for a second Dad would change his mind did you?” Sam asked, dismayed.

 

Dean just shrugged.

 

“God, I’ve been such a selfish idiot. I didn’t listen to what you or Cas or even Missouri was trying to tell me because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

 

“You were so goddamn hopeful,” Dean murmured. “I didn’t want you to have to face him alone.”

 

Sam rubbed a hand angrily over his face, trying to dispel his tears. Dean didn’t say anything, but he did pull Sam into a tight, if somewhat awkward, sideways hug, ruffling his hair as he let go. They watched the clouds drift by in silence for a while: wispy white trails dwarfed by the all-consuming blue of the sky.

 

“Do you remember,” Sam said slowly, warily, “the last time we were at this bus stop?”

 

Beside him, Dean stiffened. “I try not to.”

 

Sam ignored the warning. “I told you that you were destroying our family, that we would never be together again because of you.”

 

“Sammy please…”

 

“And then today I said the _exact same thing_.” Sam laughed bitterly. “I thought I’d changed _so_ much, but here I am – twelve years later still expecting my big brother to come in and make everything better,” He shook his head.  “I made you choose between family and safety. I made it so you could only be my brother again on my terms. I thought I needed exactly the family I’d had as a kid, and I didn’t ever stop to think what that family would cost you. And it took me dragging you halfway across the country to realise I already have all the family I need.”

 

 They looked at each other, and for the first time, Sam felt that he really _saw_ Dean. Not as the smiling boy from his childhood; not as the ominous, corrupting shadow from his youth or as the brother shaped hole in his family, but as the person he was now. Strange and foreign in some ways, warm and familiar in others.

 

Dean smiled at him, his first real smile that day, and clapped him on the shoulder: the simple movement conveyed to Sam everything he knew Dean would never say out loud: forgiveness, gratitude, love. Then, stretching, he got to his feet, turning back to face the town.

 

“Right,” he said, “let’s swing by the library, pick up Missouri and get the hell outta this ass end town.”

 

“We’re taking Missouri?” Sam asked, curious.

 

“Yeah: she hasn’t seen the diner yet _or_ enjoyed the wonders of the San Francisco public library. Besides,” Dean grimaced, “she’s the only thing I can think of that will stop Cas and Charlie from doing their ‘I told you so’ routine.”

 

Sam winced at the thought. “I don’t think I’d survive that,” he admitted.

 

“Of course you wouldn’t, but what else are big brothers for eh?”

 

Dean swung a casual arm over his shoulder and guided him back towards the car.


End file.
